


Homesick

by gaensebluemchen



Category: Inkheart (2008), Tintenwelt-Trilogie | Inkheart Trilogy - Cornelia Funke
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 23:59:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18020990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaensebluemchen/pseuds/gaensebluemchen
Summary: Visiting medieval markets is fun, but not if everything reminds you of what you have lost.





	Homesick

Performing at medieval festivals felt almost like comfort. Of course, he also needed to earn money, but there was also something else...

Whenever Dustfinger's homesickness and loneliness got too much, he tried to catch up with his old friend fire. Needless to say, it never answered him in this world, but still, there was something familiar about the flickering flames. Their warmth and occasional bite distracted him from his own feelings. And when he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of smoke, he could pretend – if only for a moment – that everything was still alright.

Dustfinger had debated with himself if he should go to today's medieval market. The last time he went to one, he had felt worse afterwards than he had before. But he was slowly running out of money, and maybe... Just maybe, he would feel as if he were home again, at least for a day. With a sigh, Dustfinger made up his mind.

 

The fire rose high into the air, as if it tried to lick the clouds. Dustfinger whirled it around and let it kiss his bare arms. He danced with the flames, almost became one with them, red and gold, faster and faster. The crowd watched in awe, children looked at him with round eyes and open mouths. Anyone who saw him forgot their troubles and stressful everyday lives for a while. They just took a break, gathered round and watched him. A small smile crept over Dustfinger's face. Yes, this was what he was here for. Those small moments of happiness, the few seconds when everyone forgot where they were frantically running to. If only he could show them what real fire-dancing was like... Back home, he could tame the flames with a few softly whispered words and form them into flowers. But in this world, the fire was not the same. It was not mute, but it spoke a language foreign to him. And it definitely lacked a sense of humour.

With a hint of sadness, he put out the fire as the last claps of applause faded away. He had made enough money and still had some free time. Dustfinger decided to spend the rest of the day on the market.

He didn't know what he had expected. Maybe just a break from the crowded, loud world that kept him prisoner. But this market was just as fast, loud and crowded as the rest of this world. The people pushing past him kept their gazes on their watches as if their lives depended on it. Always in a hurry. A few metres away from him, some people gathered to watch a blacksmith forge a sword. Dustfinger sneered. None of those people had ever been threatened by someone with a sword. They thought it was a curiosity, something out of place and out of time. Just like Dustfinger himself was. He sighed and continued walking around.

He watched a few other performers. They were not bad, but... Something was missing. Everything seemed so dull, lifeless, like cardboard cutouts instead of real people. One gust of wind, and they would fall over and reveal their emptiness.

Dustfinger stopped to buy some freshly baked bread. He still remembered the bread Roxane used to bake. He sighed.

Roxane...

Dustfinger wondered what she was doing now. What she thought about her husband leaving her. Again.

Dustfinger swallowed hard. The bread suddenly tasted like paper. He was not hungry anymore.

He should have spent more time with his family. With his daughters. Back then, he thought he had so much time he could spend with them... How wrong he had been.

Rosanna would be eight years old now. He could barely remember her little face, and besides, she would look so different now.

He just hoped that his daughters were alright. And Roxane as well. He hoped they were happy. Without him.

Dustfinger stood up, and walked away.

No one noticed him leaving.

 

Performing at medieval festivals almost felt like comfort. But it was much more akin to torture.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Dustfinger, I don't own Inkheart, I don't even own a sword. I do own a loaf of bread, tho...


End file.
